Encore
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: It's not quite the old patterns Sam falls back into.


**Encore**  
K Hanna Korossy

The first time in three years Sam spent the night with his brother, it was day.

They didn't even talk about getting their own room, complicit in silence that they would keep the one their father had abandoned. The pictures and notes tacked up on the walls, the protection wards laid out, the rumpled bed were all familiar and comforting, a link to their missing dad, to a past that wasn't as foreign or hated as Sam liked to pretend.

Besides, they had a hunt to finish.

"I'll get the stuff from the car," Sam said, since Dean was still caked liberally with mud and sewage.

Dean didn't answer, just dug into his pocket and tossed Sam the keys. Sam turned toward the door, Dean toward the shower, when they both suddenly stopped, realizing the patterns of years were gone.

"Uh, where's—"

"Weapons bag's in the trunk, kit's under the front seat. Water bottles are in the back if you want one."

"Thanks." He was out the door.

The car. Man, the memories it held. Like everything from his old life, it was loved and hated, evil and good. Now, it seemed to be home for Dean, and Sam was glad his brother at least had that. He patted the chrome before unlocking the door and dragging supplies and duffels out.

Inside, he hesitated, looking at the two beds. Dad had always taken the one by the door. Dean would probably want that one now, then Sam shook his head. No probably about it. Neither of them had said it, but Dean had hurled himself off the bridge without even trying to grab the railing, and Sam knew it was so that he wouldn't knock his brother down with him. Dean was still the protector, even though the thought was both amusing and kind of sad now. Sam sighed and dumped his bag on the far bed.

The shower cut off. Sam checked out the weapons bag so he knew what they had on hand these days, old habits dying hard, while Dean got dressed. The bathroom door opened, and Sam caught his brother's surprised flinch out of the corner of his eye. For a second, he'd forgotten Sam was there.

Sam made himself grin, and found it hard. "So, you still living off motel vending machines?"

The grin was returned, as cautious as his felt. For all Dean's bravado, neither of them were comfortable with this. "Dude, nothing wrong with chips and candy."

"Yeah, if you don't mind catching scurvy." He hesitated, realizing that was a joke Dean might not get. Three years had put a lot of distance between them on so many levels.

"You can pick up some oranges if you want," Dean said carelessly, starting to root through his bag for clean clothes. Sam didn't miss the approving glance at his choice of bed.

He'd almost forgotten how much smarter Dean was than he seemed. And how he'd never minded Sam knowing more than he did, anyway, even before leaving for school.

A lot was just coming back as Sam lay in bed thinking about it. How Dean hummed when he shaved. How there always seemed to be something edible in one of his pockets, like he was afraid he might starve. How he sorted laundry by texture and smell instead of color. How he liked to have the TV on for background noise. Except, he'd glanced at Sam that morning and flipped it back off, like he didn't want the distraction.

And then there was what Sam was pretty sure he'd never seen before. The moments of wary darkness he caught in Dean's eyes. The sure grace his brother moved with now, the controlled power of a hunter. The way he double-checked the door, the salt circles. And the way his voice dipped just a fraction when he talked about Dad or said Sam's name.

Sam wanted to go back to school, to Jess, to his future. But there would be a part of him that would always be reluctant to leave this—_Dean_—behind. Maybe they could do it again sometime, a little weekend away in less dire circumstances, just being brothers. He fell asleep thinking how much he'd missed this.

His phone was blinking when Dean woke him up a few hours later. He had a message: _Jess. _

Well, he'd missed it a little, anyway.

00000

The first time in three-and-a-half years Sam let someone else take care of him, it wasn't Jess.

He didn't know how long he lay there, didn't think about it, didn't care. Barely noticed the hands that finally touched him until, for a second, hope stabbed his heart.

"Jess," he gasped.

The hands stilled. "No, Sammy, it's me."

But he knew that already, because Jess was gone. They'd buried her that day. And there was nothing else he wanted, nothing else to live for.

The hands started in on him again, easing his jacket off, then careful at his neck with the knot of his tie. His shoes followed, then his pants. His body didn't seem like it was his as it was gently manipulated and undressed: arms lifted, legs tugged, hips shifted. He shivered once, and something warm and heavy and soft was pulled over him, up to his neck.

Maybe now he'd be left alone.

But no. An arm slid under his cheek, tilted him up. "Take these." Another held out a pair of white pills. He stared at them a moment, then curled stiff fingers around them and swallowed them. Didn't matter what they were. Nothing could make things worse. Or better.

A wet glass brushed his lips. "Drink this." He took a sip. "All of it, Sam." Kind words, almost tender. It was easier to just obey them and he did, draining the glass, barely feeling the water slosh in his empty stomach. Vomiting it up would have been too much effort; he didn't_care. _Couldn't seem to feel anything.

Not even the moisture on his cheeks. Not until a rough thumb wiped it away, then a warm, wet cloth. Sliding over and over his face, his burning eyes, until he closed them. They leaked anyway. Those same rough-skinned hands, smelling faintly of gun oil and aftershave, smoothed his hair from his hot, damp face and swollen eyes.

There was a voice. Someone talking in the background, too much effort to listen to, but the words washed over him and some of them caught.

"…gonna be okay…it'll get better…time…promise…"

He was washing his own face with tears faster than the cloth could keep up.

Suddenly it was gone and there were arms and hands again and a moment of vertigo. Then skin warmer than his own and leather and broad muscle and stubbled skin where Jess had always been soft and smooth.

She was gone.

But he wasn't alone. He was held and rocked and soothed, lying heavily in the embrace that had always been able to make things better.

"I'm here. I'm here, Sammy."

It didn't help, but it maybe kept him from losing himself, too.

00000

The first time in four years Sam sat vigil with his unconscious brother, it wasn't because of the dead or undead or never dying, but because of the living.

He'd given up on Dean returning for the night. The older Winchester had gone out to earn them some money, and Sam's lip had curled into a smile as he'd said good-night. Dean's work also usually meant play, and as midnight came and went and Sam turned in, he figured his brother had found success on all counts.

The shuffle-scrape at the door that woke him an hour later was therefore a mystery.

Sam blinked at the dark room, then grabbed the .45 off the nightstand and stood, stalking to the door. If someone or something was trying to break in, they had really picked the wrong room. He held his breath, waiting with a hand on the doorknob, until the cheap wood rattled with impact. Sam cursed and flung it open.

Dean was just sliding down the jamb, grin a little hazy and broken through the blood.

"What—Dean!" He grabbed handfuls of leather, hastily readjusting his grip when he made Dean groan, then hauling him inside as gently as he could considering the hour and both their states. Sam flipped the light on, and flinched at the sight of his brother's face. "Dean," he murmured.

"M'okay." The blond head sagged toward Sam's shoulder, one arm raised in an unconvincing pat of Sam's chest. "M'okay, Sammy, just—" he hissed, "—just gimme a minute."

Sam was careful as he heaved his wobbly brother up onto the bed and helped him take off his jacket, but worry—heck, stark panic—made Sam's voice abrupt. "You hustled the wrong person, didn't you. Or people—it looks like the whole Rams offensive line worked you over. For God's sake, Dean…"

Again that unrepentant grin, undeterred by the blood spilling over his lip and the burgeoning black eye above it. "Got enough to keep us and the car going for the next week, Sammy." The mouth stretched a little more, trying too hard now. "And the bartender's phone number."

Then he pitched forward against Sam.

Sam bit off a curse as he caught Dean, eased him back to the bed. A quick check revealed scrapes and bruises and skinned knuckles, but no puncture wounds or gunshots or anything that meant a middle-of-the-night trip to the hospital. Dean had just been worked over, and Sam shook his head more than once as he gently washed away blood, cleaned and covered wounds, and applied ice. He stripped his brother and maneuvered him more comfortably onto his side under the covers.

He was just rising to get some water when a hesitant knock came at the door.

The .45 was on the table behind him. Sam made sure it was in reaching distance when he opened up.

The girl waiting on the other side looked shaken, curled into herself, and a little ragged. Her mascara had run, and there was a bruise on her temple her dark hair didn't quite hide. Victim, Sam instantly knew, and softened his defensive stance.

"I'm sorry, uh…I hope I have the right room? I was just, uh…your brother dropped this." She thrust Dean's switchblade toward him.

Sam stared at her for a second before snapping out of it and taking the blade. "Thanks…"

"Liz. He saved my life, you know? Most people wouldn't've stopped." She was twisting her jacket around herself, and Sam recognized the body language. He'd seen it in many assaultees.

"Were you at the bar?" he asked gently, wanting more pieces, because God knew Dean wouldn't give him any.

She frowned faintly. "What? No. Down the street. By the ATM. He said he was staying here and could get home… Look, I…I have to go. Just…thank him for me, okay?"

"Yeah." Sam nodded, wanting to do more for her but recognizing he probably couldn't. He watched as she stuttered away to a waiting car and got in. The driver, an older man, touched her shoulder, and they drove away. She'd be all right.

Thanks to Dean.

Sam winced and shut the door.

The switchblade he slid into the pocket of the discarded leather jacket, then Sam picked up a chair and dropped it by Dean's bed, folding his frame into it. His brother never twitched, too deeply under. Too battered.

Sam smoothed the blanket's edge, making sure it trapped the warmth inside, and studied the sleeper softly. "Sorry, man," he whispered.

Dean slept on. And gave Sam a long, assessing look the next morning when Sam was waiting for him with fresh coffee and pancakes, but he never asked. Sam didn't tell.

Nor forget.

00000

The first time in not long enough Sam got in trouble with the law, it wasn't even his brother's fault. In fact, if anything, he'd gotten Dean involved, and how messed up was that?

"Lay down on the ground with your arms out to your sides!" an officer barked at him as uniforms advanced, guns and flashlights aimed at him.

Sam obeyed without protest. They were looking for Dean, not him, or rather, the skinwalker with Dean's face, and they couldn't keep him. Still, he'd been detained before and it was never fun.

Sam was patted down, then his arms yanked behind his back and cuffed. Not a problem; even with his long legs he could have had the cuffs in front and unlocked in two minutes, one-and-a-half if he was racing his brother. Still, it was disconcerting. Sam mentally traced his fleeing brother's path, counting on Dean having used the distraction to get away. Now, if only he kept his word and stayed out of the sewers…

"Up," the hard voice ordered, and Sam was yanked to his feet with enough force to strain his shoulder sockets. It made his still-aching head swim. A gun remained trained on him, while another officer was flipping through Sam's wallet. He tried to remember which ID Dean had given him last. "What's your name, sir?" the cop asked, echoing his thoughts.

"Samuel Tyler," he said with outward calm. "Like the Aerosmith singer."

That earned him a confused look, and Sam swallowed a sigh. It was probably going to be a long night.

They ended up taking him to the station. They had nothing to hold him on so he wasn't booked, just stuck in a small interrogation room to sweat while they tried to figure out if he was a suspect.

Dean had always been better at evading the police than Sam had, whether with lies or stealth. But Dean had still ended up arrested once, on suspicion of arson—and there was no suspicion about it, he'd done it—and held for almost forty-eight hours. Sam had been the one to pick him up when he'd been released, their dad on a hunt somewhere, unbothered by his twenty year-old son's incarceration. It was probably a good thing, too, because Dean had been visibly shaken by the experience.

"_They just kept me locked up in this little room, Sammy. It was like choking." _That was all Dean had said before clamming up, slipping back into _everything's cool_ mode, probably revealing a lot more than if John had been there. But Sam had seen the fear. Dean hated being trapped, losing control, almost as much as he hated being alone.

They left Sam alone in the room for a long time.

If they fingerprinted him, he was sunk. He was in the system on juvenile stuff, and being busted for a fake ID would kill his law career before it started.

Dean wouldn't go into the sewers alone, would he?

They couldn't keep him there forever. Sam hadn't done anything. Had even spun a fairly credible story about taking a walk to cool down after a fight with his girlfriend.

God, Jess…

The interrogation rooms were small. Claustrophobic. Psychology class lectures came back unbidden, about anxiety triggers and emotional stimuli.

Dean was at Rebecca's. He was safe.

Why didn't the cops come talk to him? It was an interrogation room, for Pete's sake.

Sam clattered the cuffs, wincing when they cut into his flesh. Dean could've gotten out of them in less than a minute.

Man, the room was small.

Quiet.

Alone.

He'd missed Dean. Painfully. Had done so despite school and new friends and Jess. Missed him now.

How had Dean not suffocated in a place like this?

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and waited.

And swore, when they let him go, both to the detectives and himself, that he would never be on this side of the law again.

…unless Dean needed it.

00000

The first time in too long Sam was reunited with all his family, he remembered why he'd left.

It hit him in the chips aisle of the local grocery story, in the midst of debating between Cheetos and Doritos. Dean preferred Doritos, less filling though they were, while Sam was definitely more of a Cheetos kind of guy, for their aerodynamic advantage if nothing else. With their being cooped up for a while in a room together, both of them recovering from a daeva attack and Dean also from a thunderbird mauling and an infection, that could be important. But money was tight and Sam didn't want to buy more than one bag of junk food.

Flummoxed, he resorted to what he usually did and pulled out his phone. Scrolled to Dean. Passed Dad on the way.

Dad.

The lump, never far those days, returned to Sam's throat. He'd kept his father's number in his phone throughout his years at Stanford, and not just because at first it was the only way to reach Dean. Sam knew he wasn't welcome back, but knew just as much that he couldn't cut those ties completely. Not to the only parent he had left. To have learned that his dad had felt the same way, that John had regretted those years of silence as much as Sam…

He rubbed at his eyes. How was it possible to both hate and love someone so much at the same time?

Sam highlighted Dean's name and pressed "Call."

It only took two rings. He was surprised it took even that many.

_"You miss me already?"_

Sam smiled wetly, not about to deny the truth of that. "Dean…did Dad talk about me when I was gone?"

There was a slight pause: he'd taken his brother by surprise and Dean was switching gears. Trying to figure out what Sam needed to hear. There would be no teasing about this. _"You know he did. Remember what Jerry said? Dad talked about you all the time, Sam. He was proud of you."_

The lump was turning into a tennis ball. Sam swallowed with difficulty around it and nodded, even if Dean couldn't see him. He'd kind of figured…hoped…after their reunion, but hadn't dared assume. He didn't take anyone but Dean's love for granted anymore. Sam shifted where he stood. "I wish he would have told me that."

_"Yeah, well…you two never did shut up long enough to listen to each other." _

Sam's fingers clenched the phone. He realized his stance was set like he was waiting for an attack, and slid his feet together. Always about the trying to look normal. He licked his lips, trying ly figure out what he wanted to say.

_"Sammy, where are you?" _Dean's voice had gotten softer.

He glanced around, almost having forgotten. "Junk food aisle."

_"Buy the Cheetos and come home. I want my car back where I can see it." _

Sam smiled automatically. Yeah, right. But he'd snagged on _come home._ The invitation his dad had never issued and probably never would. John Winchester didn't think in terms of "home." Dean had always defined that word for Sam, not their anonymous motel rooms, not Kansas, not their dad. And not California.

Sam hadn't run away from home, he told himself; he'd run to school. It had been the right decision. He'd only floundered because, for the first time ever, Dean hadn't followed him. But he finally had.

_"Sam?" _Concern now. A few more minutes, and cane, carless, and all, Dean would come looking for him.

Sam grabbed the Doritos off the shelf—he could figure out flight trajectories even for those stupid flat triangles—and stuffed it into his basket. "Yeah, man, I'm coming."

He missed Dad, but Dean was the one Sam wondered how he'd survived three years without.

00000

The first time in his life Sam realized what was most important, it was after he'd nearly lost it all.

He sat on the edge of Dean's bed, drawing his fingers down along Dean's one at a time, straightening each curling digit with idle affection. Dean had always scoffed at Sam's "touchy-feeliness," but Sam always suspected that was for appearances alone. Dean had always cuffed, brushed, patted, and thrown a casual arm around him a lot more than Sam ever had.

_Had_, past tense.

"I don't know what to do, Dean," Sam murmured.

Their dad was gone, probably off summoning the demon for one last showdown and getting himself killed. His journal hadn't offered Sam any clues how to stop the reaper that was in the hospital. And Dean was…Dean's body was lying there, but the presence Sam had felt, that had all but wrapped itself lovingly around him over the ouija board, was gone. Fleeing the reaper, looking for Dad: Sam didn't know. He just knew it was someplace he couldn't follow, and that he was alone. Right when he'd finally figured out he didn't want to be.

"I need you." The same words he'd said so urgently to his bleeding brother in the car. After the demon had taken even that away from Dean, and Sam had finally, finally gotten what his brother had been trying to tell him all along. "Dean, I _need _you."

Dean didn't move except for the mechanical rise and fall of his chest as machines breathed for him.

Sam's eyes filled with tears, and he squeezed the lifeless fingers until Dean should have been wincing with pain. But he wasn't. "Please," Sam whispered. This couldn't be it, not when he'd finally figured it out.

Sam tapped the journal against his knee a few times, then stood, sliding free of Dean's lax grip. He set the book down and turned away, pacing a few steps, swallowing. The slow beat of the heart monitor made his throat ache.

_The three of us. That's all we have._

Sam had just never thought about _him_ being the one left to bury the rest of his family.

Oh, God, did he get it now.

He nodded to himself, ventured back to Dean's bedside, and watched his brother lying there. He wouldn't have blamed Dean for not wanting to fight, but four letters—HUNT—promised otherwise. He knew who Dean was doing it for, too, because Sam felt the same way.

He just wished…

Sam licked his lips. "Dean, are you here?"

He looked around, wishing Dean would come back in any sense, but feeling nothing. Sam swallowed again. "Couldn't find anything in the book. I don't know how to help you." He worked to keep his voice steady. "But I'll keep trying, all right? As long as you keep fighting."

Sam paused, laughed. "I mean, come on, you can't…you can't leave me here alone with Dad. We'll kill each other, you know that."

But he couldn't keep the smile, and his eyes filled. "Dean, you gotta hold on. You can't go, man, not now.

"We were just starting to be brothers again."

**The End**


End file.
